


Empty ways can cloud your eyes

by NoemiTenshi



Category: Cursed (TV 2020)
Genre: Christianity, Crisis of Faith, Developing Friendship, Developing Relationship, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Other, Romance, Touch-Starved, probably inaccuarte representation of mental health issues - i'm sorry, redemption arc, slow-burn?, the path to redemption is not a stricktly increasing line, the weeping monk x OC female, the weeping monk x OC male, the weeping monk x OC non-binary, the weeping monk x you
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:21:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25635706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoemiTenshi/pseuds/NoemiTenshi
Summary: Lancelot faltered. Turned his face heavenward. “Is this then my punishment? It’s too much!”*“That faith is the only thing holding him together. ...If he let’s go he’ll fall apart and if he holds on he’ll bleed out.”*Chris now took Lancelot’s other hand and squeezed both.“Your hands did God’s work today.”--------------------------------------------After season 1 of Cursed the Weeping Monk and Squirrel are found by a Fey woman who paches them up. While healing up, the Weeping Monk realizes that he doesn't know who he is anymore and what path to follow. He needs to find himself to be of any help to others (espescially Squirrel). The Fey woman takes Squirrel in so that the Weeping Monk can find himself. This is the story of his struggles, starting after he left Squirrel and the woman.
Relationships: The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed)/Original Character(s), The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed)/You
Comments: 38
Kudos: 33





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The story starts after the weeping monk left Squirrel with the fey woman. It is (as of yet) 3 chapters long and finished of a fashion. The title is from the song "The one that kills the least" by Slipknot.  
> Enjoy!

The monk stood outside the church, drawing in mouthfuls of air. The feeling of being cleaved in half only intensified. He was lost, he knew, betrayer of his faith, his father, his God. And at the same time, he knew, it was right to save the boy with an unwavering conviction that surprised him. All his life until that point felt like a fight. A fight for his faith. A fight for recognition. He walked the path willingly, proudly even.

But some days… some days, in the depths of his heart he just wanted everything to end, the constant battle draining his every resource. _This suffering, it will_ cleanse ___you_ he had said to the Green Knight. And he believed it with every fiber of his being. He’d convinced Father Carden of his piousness through his suffering – the marks on his body. He’d at least impressed his brothers with the extent of it.

The hardest battle though was the one fought within himself. The demon whispering to him - sounding suspiciously like a young and frightened Lancelot, though he did not acknowledge this fact.

But when it came to the boy – Percival, the demon and the monk agreed. It was right to save him. But if the demon approved, shouldn’t the monk do everything in his power to thwart it? And if not… . But his mind shied away from those thoughts.

His eyes focused on the painted cross they’d been fixed on. He filled his lungs with air, feeling his chest tighten and entered.

And was almost surprised that he wasn’t struck down with lightning and fire for daring to walk on holy ground after murdering the trinity guard, after defying Father Carden (defying God). He stepped in front of the large ornate cross and knelt down. _I am your servant_ ran through his mind. _Though demon-born,_ _I am yours. Make use of me. I am yours. Give me a sign. I am yours. I_ need to be _yours._ He ached for his whip, to show his devotion. To show that he would exchange every last drop of his tainted blood, if he could. _Even if,_ his mind stuttered, _even if I never reach salvation, I am yours. Brandish me towards your enemies, for I am… ._

“Oh, I hadn’t realized that someone was here! May I… help you?” The monk whipped his head around, making the person stutter. He hadn’t heard anyone approach. _Stupid_. Warm brown eyes and a kind face greeted him. The unknown person (though the cross hung across the neck as well as the clothing indicated a pious one) knelt down next to him. The brown eyes widened when they reached the monks face.

 _The markings!_ The monk berated himself for not leaving immediately. (A small part of him wanted to be caught, to be brought to justice for betraying his faith.)

“Oh, you’re… ! You – you can’t stay here. Father Matthew might return at any moment.” Warm hands were urging him to stand up, pushing him towards the door. “If you need to, come back at dawn. Father Matthew sleeps until noon and no one else will bother you here.” With one final push the monk found himself standing before the door, squinting against the sun.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is chapter 2. And I know I said the fic is only two chapters long, but turns out I have a third one. So, yay!? I’ll post the third chapter probably sometime in the next two days, depending on my internet access. As before, this chapter is unbeta’d.

Predictably, the monk was back in the church at dawn. He walked briskly to the altar and knelt before the cross. This time, his mind was blank. He fixated the cross until his eyes burned with tears. Was he hoping for a sign or punishing himself?

“You came back!”

The monk let his gaze linger, acutely aware of the wetness on his face. Then he straightened his spine and looked directly into familiar brown eyes.

“You told me to.” He paused, however not long enough to allow for a reply. “You know who I am – and still… .” He trailed off, uncertain of how to voice the question, afraid of revealing too much. Was the truth already spreading? The truth of his bloodline? Should he bring it up? As a warning? (As a punishment?)

_Would you have let me come back, knowing this?_

_If so, what does that make you?_ _A traitor? Betraying holy ground to… ._

“Yes. I know who you are.” The words, though softly spoken, hung heavy between them. The monk pressed his lips together, a muscle jumping in his cheek. “You clearly seek God’s guidance; it is not my place to turn you away.” Again, the words were almost whispered. And still, the monk sensed a resolution in them that surprised him. “It is for Him alone to reject you.” The monk blinked.

An onslaught of objections coursed through his mind, mostly in Father Carden’s voice. Of how one needs to be worthy of God. Of how one cannot expect even the smallest mercy and still needs to give everything. Of how tainted he is. Of how grateful he should be that he is allowed to play a small part in His plans. The monk swallowed them all down, unwilling to meet kindness with anger.

“My name is Chris. I am helping Father Matthew with whatever he might need and I am learning the scriptures.” Chris said uneasily into the silence. The monk inclined his head.

“I am… .” He trailed of and pressed ground his teeth. _Son,_ Father Carden used to say. _The gray monk, the weeping monk_ , others called him. _Lancelot,_ that hateful name he’d told the boy. Chris looked at him expectantly. The monk let his shoulders fall and his gaze went back to the cross.

“I can’t just call you – monk.” Chris started out teasing but stumbled over the title. The silence grew uncomfortable.

“Lancelot.” The name felt foreign on his tongue.

“Lancelot.” Chris repeated carefully, tasting every syllable. The monks gaze wandered to the kind face. Expecting… judgment? Hearing his name, after so long, made him feel bared to this stranger. Still, he could not stop looking into those kind eyes. The monk wondered at the thoughts swirling behind them. Judging him. “Ah. Can I – uh – help you, maybe? I mean, if you want to... talk? Or maybe not. Would you like something to drink? Or eat? I mean, I already told you I am learning the scriptures, so if you wanted… .” Chris walked back and forth with every new idea, directionless. The monk followed the movements with his eyes and shrugged, finally. Chris’ cheeks reddened. “I’ll leave you to it, sorry! I’ll be over there if you… well.” Gesturing to an adjoining room, Chris beat a hasty retreat.

“You could read to me, if you like? The scriptures.” Now it was Chris’ turn to be startled. The monk was gesturing tentatively at the table littered with ancient texts. Chris almost didn’t notice the bloodied prints on his palms – and unbidden the image of the monk kneeling in front of the cross, balling his fists at their first meeting came to mind. Chris vividly remembered the wet streaks almost concealed by the monks markings as he first turned in Chris’ direction. The monk snatched his hands back and was holding himself unnaturally still.

Chris made a vague gesture towards a chair and began to speak. The monk closed his eyes and sought solace in the holy words.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to chapter 3. This is, where the actual hurt/comfort takes place, so enjoy! If I knew more about the bible I would have loved to have Lancelot and Chris discuss relevant verses(?). Sadly, this is not where my expertise lies and though I love research, I probably would never publish the chapter if I started down that road :D However, feel free to suggest verses you think would be good for them to discuss or which you’d just love to see discussed. 
> 
> Beware, this is the last chapter I have pre-written. I hope to continue with this story, but currently I am out of inspiration - fingers crossed that it strikes again :)

The monk returned to the church at every dawn. He and Chris had unspokenly fallen into a routine; Chris would read to him until almost noon, Father Matthew’s waking time. Additionally, there was always a glass of milk and some bread and cheese set on the table. 

Initially, this ritual helped settle his thoughts. He wrapped the holy words closely around him and used their familiarity to chase away errant thoughts. Dangerous thoughts. Thoughts of the boy and the Trinity Guard, of the demon and the monk in agreement.

But soon he found those times he spent with Chris unsettling. When Chris read, the familiar stories turned alien. The emphasis in every verse was diametric to Father Carden’s. Thus the demon grew bolder. Louder. So loud, in fact, that yesterday the monk had stood abruptly and left. The jarring scraping of the chair against the floor and Chris’ worried words were still haunting him. “What’s wrong? Were are you going? Lancelot!”

Today he had decided to come to the church before dawn. At a time he knew he was truly alone with God. And as at the first day, he knelt without hesitation before the cross. Confessing his sins.  _ Demon-born. Unworthy. Betrayer. _ And his greatest one, the one he didn’t even dare think… . His whip! He needed his whip, needed to show his remorse. Needed to repent.

As if compelled, he laid his torso bare, displaying his devotion, his past willingness to atone. Wishing he could draw his own blood and adding new wounds to his welting skin. Unholy skin.

_This is what I am willing to do. This and so much more. I am truly yours to command. Your willing, unworthy servant._

“Lancelot” a soft voice breathed. The monk opened his eyes (when had he closed them?) and saw with trepidation that he had remained long enough for dawn to arrive. He sprang to his feet and reached for his garments, all the while pointedly not looking at Chris. He didn’t want the demon back, the demon emboldend by Chris’s interpretation of the holy words. He needed to leave.

Warmth blossomed on his back – for a confused second the monk couldn’t place the sensation. Chris had placed gentle hands on him. “Who...” Chris started to ask. Revulsion rolled through the monk. Chris was _sympathizing_. It was right and good that those scars where on his back. It was necessary. After all he was... .

“I’m Fey” he rasped. And then, louder. “I’m Fey!” His breathing accelerated, waiting for the Chris to pass judgment. He had betrayed Chris’ trust. Another betrayal on a long list. Maybe that is all he could do, no matter his intentions. Maybe that is what it meant to be demon-born.

But the warmth stayed. Chris stayed. _What are you doing? Did you not hear me? I’m Fey. I’m Fey. I’m Fey!_ The monk wanted to yell at Chris. To push Chris away. _I’ll taint you!_ Instead he choked down the words. Forced them far, far down.

His breathing evened out as he concentrated on the warm spreading from Chris’ fingertips. Until now he had not realized how cold it was in the church. Bitingly so. Chris moved the hands slowly. _Don’t take them away!_ But Chris wasn’t. The fingers traced the scars, so gentle, as if afraid to hurt him.

“Did...” Chris swallowed audibly and the hands stilled for a second because the rasped _I’m Fey_ still rang in Chris’ ears. “Did you do this?” Chris’ voice almost broke. The monk moved his head sharply – yes. Then he shrugged, helpless.

“Not all of them” he added quickly. Chris had to will the tears back. For a Fey to work with the Red Paladins… unimaginable horrors must have been inflicted upon him. Most probably starting when he was still a child. Part of the evidence was right under Chris’ fingertips. Bile rose but Chris was careful not to show it.

Suddenly, the monk wrenched himself away from the soothing touch. With horror it’d dawned on him that he was ashamed of his scars. Of the proof of his devotion. He dared to stay before the cross, regretting… .

Chris’ hands reached out to him and landed on his torso. Chris, whose mouth turned into a hard line, continued softly touching the scars. “Stop” the monk whispered. Brown eyes met blue.

“This is not God’s work” Chris said, “Not God’s will.” The monk made a half-aborted gesture to flee again but he couldn’t look away from Chris’ eyes, Chris’ face. There was such a hardness there that looked almost alien. But the eyes were soft with unshed tears. “This is the work of men. The will of men. Because God loves all His creatures, remember?”

Chris had just discovered the reason why the monk had left so abruptly yesterday. And there was nothing surprising about that realization. “God loves all His creatures” Chris reiterated “And He wants us to take care of one another.” Chris’ hands were still spreading warmth, carefully mapping the criss-cross of scars. “You did not deserve even one of those scars” was said with such conviction and kindness that he felt himself split open.

All his holy deeds flashed before his eyes. Village after village cleansed (slaughtered). How proud he was of being useful (afraid, so afraid of failing, of the punishments). Proud of turning his demonic ability against demonkind. How he’d defied Father Carden. Betrayed his trust. How he’d slaughtered the Trinity Guard (they were threatening a child). He needed his whi… .

“Lancelot” Chris’ soft voice anchored him and he realized that he was violently shaking. “I cannot begin to imagine what has been done to you.” - _I’m Fey_ rang again through Chris’ ears. Words laden with such defeat and loathing. “No one deserves this.” Countless counterarguments ran through Lancelot’s mind. Fighting each other, fighting Chris’ words. Who just kept on repeating: “No one, Lancelot. No one deserves this.”, “This is not God’s will.”, “God loves all His creatures.” and any variation thereof.

Lancelot sank to his knees, unable to remain standing. _Still shaking_ he noted with a strange detachment. The detachment he always achieved when he was punishing himself. He had no words for what he felt, for his actions (in defense of his actions?). All the while Chris did not stop caressing the scars with a patience and tenderness that had him feeling more wounded than what the Red Paladins had managed to inflict over the years. That he, himself had inflicted.

Lancelot wanted to run from the soft words and gentle hands. From the look of forgiveness. From regretting doing God’s work (or was it the work of men?). From himself. But he craved the tender touches and gentle words, violently. If God loves all creatures, then surely… ?

“God loves you, Lancelot.”


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Lancelot gasped awake, muscles taut, face carefully blank. He couldn’t show Father his fear, shouldn’t let him see. His small body ached from the last time he’d displeased Father.

But no, he wasn’t back with Farther Carden, wasn’t that frightened boy anymore. He was at his campsite. And he wasn’t alone. His eyes drank in the figure of Chris, slumped against the tree, asleep. Lancelot could almost feel ghostly fingers touching him so gently, reverently as if he was something delicate and precious.

His skin prickled. Burned. He knew, he didn’t deserve such kindness, shouldn’t abuse Chris’ generosity so. Chris, who could still walk on the path of salvation. He was tainting Chris, _making a sinner_ out of Chris. His faced burned, when he remembered the softly spoken words _God loves you._

The monk released a sharp breath _,_ caught between a helpless laugh and an angry snort, startling Chris awake. The monk stared transfixed, still tense, how Chris became aware of the surroundings, blinking the drowsiness away, looking young and soft and – innocent, so much that it _hurt_. They locked eyes. The ghost of a smile played on Chris’ lips. _God loves you_ kept running thought the monks mind and suddenly his skin felt too tight. His scars ached.

“Go”, the monk ground out. The smile slipped off Chris’ face, brows creased. “Wha-?” the word was almost indistinguishable from a breath. _God loves you._ The monks fists clenched, his facial expression stony. Chris’ eyes actually softened. A hand reached out as if to placate the monk. Hands that felt so gentle, made him feel so right.

The monk jerked violently back. Then his expression darkened and Chris felt, for the first time since facing the Weeping Monk, tendrils of fear creeping up. The outstretched hand was dropped. The next moment, the monks hands were on Chris’ collar, bunching the fabric in white-knuckled fists. Chris flinched and a new type of understanding dawned. _This_ was the Weeping Monk, the one who’d proudly murdered his own, so efficiently. How many of his kind had seen that exact face before their death? That unforgiving face. Chris searched desperately for words

“Lancelot… .” Evidently, this was the wrong thing to say, as the Weeping Monk pushed with all his might. Chris fell, back impacting on the mossy ground with terrifying force.

“Just go! Don’t come near me again. Or I will hurt you.” The monks voice cracked. Chris searched his face one last time, hoping for any hint of the man first seen in the church.

“GO ALREADY” the monk shouted, stalking towards where Chris lay. Chris fled. The monk watched the retreating figure. His breathing had accelerated. As he opened his fists, the noticed his hands shaking. Forcefully, he stilled them. Then he took off into the woods.

The monk sat leaned against a tree, two dead rabbits and one dead bird lying at his feet. The hunt had done nothing against the feelings of restlessness. His mind was a maelstrom of memories and voices, foremost Chris’ and Farther Carden’s, chasing each other, fighting each other.

 _Unworthy._ _Corrupting Chris._ Chris, who gave him such terrible hope. And with that hope came the horror of what he’d done _._ _They have turned your mind so far inside out that you don’t know the difference between kindness and hate._ All in the believe of saving souls, of walking the path of salvation. But all he did was murder people – his people.

Thus, a part of him wanted, _needed_ Chris to be wrong, needed his actions – saving Squirrel – to be wrong. It longed to get back to the Red Paladins and beg for forgiveness, work for forgiveness and take up his place among them, because that was something he knew, he was good at. It was familiar and comforting. He wanted to go home, where everything made sense again.

But nothing ever would, he knew. He knew the perversity of all he’d done in God’s name, started to believe in Chris’ assertion, that God loves all His creatures. He had believed Chris, in the church, while gentle fingers were reverently tracing his scars, warming him, like nothing he’d ever known.

But his back itched, _burned_ with unbled wounds for doubting Father Carden’s teachings. For daring to think himself worthy of salvation, for thinking himself untainted. For the blasphemy Chris committed for him on holy ground. Chris, who’d looked at him with such a terrified expression before, an expression he knew intimately on foreign faces, Fey faces.

_God loves you._

Lancelot opened his mouth, gasping for breath and _screamed_.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is also firmly in lodged in the "hurt" territory.  
> But I've already drafted the next chapter and there will be comfort, I promise.  
> (God, it's also really hard not to use any pronouns for Chris and awkward in places...).  
> I treasure every kind of feedback, here or on my tumblr. Now, enjoy!

The monk circled in front of the village. The sun was turning the sky a muddy grey with streaks of dark blue. The whole day he couldn’t wait for dawn to arrive – and now… . Now his nervousness peaked instead of settling. He’d been so focused on dawn coming that he’d neglected to think about what he’d  _ do _ then. His impulse was to present Chris his freshly whipped back to show his sorrow and as a promise that Chris never again needed to fear him. After all, the demon needed to be punished for laying a hand on a human. 

A quiet part of him worried, that it hadn’t been the demon lashing out, but the Weeping Monk. And that frightened him in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time (when he was still a boy, confused and hurt – before Father Carden showed him the Light). The Weeping Monk was always in control; of his feelings, of his actions. The Weeping Monk _was_ control, unforgivingly so.

And still… when he closed his eyes, all he could see was Chris’ terrified face, feel the scratchy fabric of Chris’ tunic, bunched in his fists, heard the ugly _thunk_ of Chris’ back hitting the ground. If Chris hadn’t left, he’s still not sure, what he would have done. What his intent was as he was advancing on the lying form.

The demon whispered the ugliest things, showed him Chris’ body bent into unnatural shape, lying in a pool of blood that he could almost taste and it turned his stomach. And the Weeping Monk, who never let a word from the demon go unanswered was deafeningly quiet. So he longed for his whip, to make everything make sense again, punish himself as he needed to be and show Chris the depth of his remorse.

Warm fingers ghosting over his scars told him that Chris wouldn’t appreciate nor approve of him chastening himself by such means. He should _leave_. That would be the best thing he could do for Chris. It would be the selfless thing to do. He was corrupting Chris, hurting Chris. A danger in every way.

But something greedy in him balked at leaving. He feared it was the demon. But even that frightening thought couldn’t make his feet turn away. The demon, in turn, whispered that it was the Weeping Monk who’d hurt Chris. Unprovoked. Something profound lay behind that thought escaping Lancelot’s grasp. But he knew to fear the reaction of the Weeping Monk in regards to Chris. He had to employ the highest level of vigilance.

He forcefully released a deep breath

He was turning in circles, the Weeping Monk and demon within bickering and taunting one another. He closed his eyes as if to shut them out. And Chris’ terrified face floated before his mind’s eye. He clenched his jaw, decision made, and strode quickly to the church, demon and Weeping Monk falling silent.

Lancelot took care to announce his presence through noises. He didn’t want to startle Chris and wanted to leave open the option of escape. Chris did not come out to greet him, so Lancelot went to the small adjacent room, where they’ve had always sat, and remained standing in the doorway. Chris was sitting at the table. However, the kind face was now stony and the otherwise gentle eyes narrowed. Lancelot also noticed, with practiced ease, that Chris’ muscles were taut, as if ready to bolt. He cleared his throat.

“Good morning, Chris.”

“What do you want?” Chris’ voice was strained. Lancelot adjusted his stance.

“What happened in the woods“ – Chris’ flinch almost broke Lancelot but he continued on – “it will _never_ happen again.” Chris was quick to agree.

“You’re right it won’t, because you are no longer welcome here.” Lancelot took a step back as if he’d been struck. No, worse, because physical strikes he could take without moving a muscle in response. A helpless look came over his face.

“I…” he wet his lips. Then he nodded sharply. “Of course” he conceded and turned to go. “Forgive me. I won’t bother you again.”

“How can I?” Chris called after him. Lancelot paused and suddenly his chest felt too tight. He turned to Chris, whose face was still frozen in that unforgiving expression. But something complicated was moving behind Chris’ eyes. “How can I forgive you? How can I believe that you won’t do it again? Won’t hurt me again.”

Lancelot balled his fists, his fingernails digging into the soft flesh of his palm. Chris was right, words were not enough. He needed to punish himself for this transgression.

Chris shrunk back from him, misinterpreting the tense posture as a threat. Lancelot scolded himself and hastened to open his fists and relax his stance. And in that instant he realized that he didn’t know how to convince Chris of his sincerity. There was something broken between them and he had no idea how to fix it – because what he’d normally do in this situation, what he’d been taught to do, when in the wrong, didn’t seem like a good idea.

“See” Chris was jeering “I can’t even stand to be in the same room as you.” Lancelot felt his chest burst open. He fled. Chris sank down, a pile of misery. Tension dropped and Chris started to shake. The devastated look on Lancelot’s face had Chris almost calling out. But Chris’ back still pulsed with pain and Chris’ heart beat faster than it should and _Thank God_ was running through Chris’ mind since Lancelot turned to go. That terrified knot lodged deep in Chris’ gut uncurled slowly, even as something heavy settled on Chris’ chest, making it hard to breath.

Because a part of Chris did believe Lancelot when he’d said he wouldn’t do this again, saw how much it had rattled him that he’d frightened Chris. Chris let the tears flow for both of them.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to chapter 6, the longest chapter up to date! (And also, I finally managed to find the rules of writing direct speech. I hope I did it right)  
> The scene in this chapter is one half of the reason of why I wrote the fic.  
> So, enjoy!

_Knock. Knock._ There was someone at the church door. Chris hastily swiped the tears away and stood. Lancelot entered timidly. Chris had the distinct feeling of being pulled into opposite directions.

Telling Lancelot to leave a second time might prove _too much_. Wasn’t it enough already? Before Chris could gather enough courage to – what exactly? – Lancelot was two feet away, kneeling, hands outstretched, clutching… rope?

“That’s how you can believe me, Chris,” Lancelot’s voice was unwavering. Chris just stared, uncomprehendingly.

“Wha-?”

“You can tie me up, every time I’m here. I’ll tell you how, so that I can’t get out myself. So I won’t be able to hurt you,” Lancelot’s voice had an almost giddy quality to it. Chris still stared.

“Chris?” Lancelot turned the name into a question, worried, “I – I can still go and stay gone. But you asked me how you could believe me and I thought… .” He let the sentence trail off and lifted his hands with the rope in it.

“You’re not an animal,” Chris whispered harshly, scenes of a young Lancelot being tied up and _worse_ swirling in Chris’ mind. Why else would he think of something like this? _God, I hope, I’m wrong_ _!_ “I’ll not have you bound like one.”

Lancelot let his hands sink, rope falling from numb fingers. He averted his face but not before Chris caught a glimpse of hurt flashing over it.

“I understand,” he mumbled almost too quiet to be heard, “I’ll truly leave you alone.” His voice shook. Chris cursed internally. It wasn’t Lancelot that deserved the anger over the ropes. Clearly, he’d been proud of his solution and didn’t understand why Chris was rejecting it. _God_ , he was all twisted up, broken and wrongly put back together. Chris felt the familiar anger at those thoughts rise. And with it sympathy so forceful it squeezed Chris’ throat.

“Don’t go,” Chris croaked. Lancelot remained kneeling, face still averted. Chris felt on uneven ground. This had to be handled with at least as much care as when discovering horrifying sight of Lancelot’s back. Back then, Chris had hoped to erase every memory of the lashes with the gentleness of a caress. Though, the aftermath was the reason that Lancelot was kneeling two feet away. The reason a tight ball of fear was rolling in Chris’ stomach at the reminder.

Chris sighed and reached for the rope. “You are not an animal, Lancelot.” It was gently said this time. “And this is a bad idea.” Lancelot was still not moving a muscle, patiently awaiting Chris’ judgment. Chris swallowed, stomach twisting. “But it might be the best idea that we have.” This startled Lancelot into raising his head. Chris’ face was still serious, but the hardness was gone. Lancelot had to fight down the urge to sob and instead raised his hands.

“I’ll tell you what to do?” Chris nodded and stepped slowly, deliberately closer. A small tremor ran through Chris as their hands touched – though Lancelot couldn’t tell if it was due to fear, or disgust or something else entirely. He watched their joined hands and began to instruct Chris in a low whisper. Chris hesitated, the two times that Lancelot instructed, “Tighter.” And each time a little bubble of shame rose in Lancelot's chest followed by _You are not an animal!_

But then Chris squeezed his fingers gently, as if to say “It’s ok.” and the bubble would burst, making room for a foreign, heavy, though not unpleasant feeling. The next few instructions were said in a hoarse voice.

Chris’ movements were gentle, even in this and the memory of Chris caressing his scars was fresher than ever. But there was none of the confusion and panic he’d felt at the campsite. Instead, a small part of him was hoping, craving for Chris to repeat it again. Lancelot’s mind stuttered at that and he focused with everything he had on the instructions.

“Done”, he finally told Chris and tested the ropes, “Now, the legs.” Chris seemed ready to argue. Lancelot couldn’t take it again – _You’re not an animal!_ – so he quickly added, “As long as I can move my feet freely, I can open the knots.” And he rose gracefully. Chris swallowed, throat gone dry.

“I – uhm – what then?” Lancelot tilted his head in response to the question.

“What when?”

“After I…”, Chris gestured to the rope and Lancelot’s legs, “After _this_ what then?” Lancelot blinked. Chris looked at him expectantly. Lancelot opened his mouth a fraction and closed it with a _click_. His expression fell. _He hasn’t planned anything beyond this,_ Chris realized. A laugh threatened to burst, though Chris, not wanting to offend Lancelot, forced it down with great difficulty.

Lancelot’s face was doing something complicated, while watching Chris.

“I hoped we could sit – like before?” Lancelot said slowly, softly. The vulnerable expression on Lancelot’s face burst the ball of fright in Chris’ stomach, leaving back only sympathy.

“Alright,” Chris croaked, cleared the throat, “you’d best come with me first, before…” Again, Chris gestured somewhat helplessly to the rope and Lancelot’s legs. Lancelot nodded his consent.

* * *

Lancelot sat down on what he’d come to think of as his chair.

“You’d best bind my legs to the chair.” Chris looked at Lancelot sharply.

“I’m not worried that you’ll walk away.” The reply was prickly. Lancelot peered at Chris.

“I _meant_ , it’ll be harder for me to…”

Chris interrupted him, voice lower than usual, “Will it be comfortable?”

“Wha-?” Lancelot flicked his brows together, a look of utter incomprehension on his face. Chris felt hysterical giggles bubbling and fought them. Lancelot still looked at Chris for an explanation, uncomprehendingly. The urge to laugh disappeared suddenly and a pang of compassion lodged in Chris’ chest.

“Which position will be more comfortable for you?” Chris clarified. Lancelot blinked and shrugged.

“I don’t know,” he admitted in a voice laced with something – embarrassment? Chris wasn’t sure. But the pang of compassion grew.

“Ok, so, for now, we’ll do as you suggested. Tell me how?” And Chris knelt down, rope in hand. As before, Lancelot instructed Chris in an unwavering voice. Chris worked in silence, concentrating on following the instructions to the letter, as to not hurt Lancelot. After finishing, Chris’ hands stayed longer than strictly necessary on Lancelot’s legs, applying gentle pressure in a gesture of reassurance. And as before, Lancelot tested the restraints.

“Good,” he praised. Chris didn’t know how to answer to that, since there were still misgivings about the whole thing in Chris’ mind. However, watching Lancelot truly relax into the ropes wiped them away.

Until now, Chris had not realized how _tense_ Lancelot had been. He’d taken great care in appearing non-threatening to Chris, but his muscles had been subtly taut. The relaxation was very different to the time that Lancelot had fallen apart at Chris’ attention to his back, but also strangely reminiscent. Chris wet dry lips.

“Should I read?” Chris asked. Lancelot blinked sluggishly.

“Whatever you want,” he said in an equally lazy tone that was doing _things_ to Chris. So Chris hastily started to read.

* * *

When Chris had finished, Lancelot asked in a small voice, “Do you believe me now?” Chris stilled, eyes searching Lancelot’s face, who looked like he regretted asking, pointedly averting his eyes, tenseness returning to his muscles. Chris deliberately took the sight of Lancelot bound to the chair – _You’ve done this_ – in. The embarrassed realization that a feeling of safety did stem from the sight rising in Chris.

Lancelot lifted his head after all, locking eyes with Chris. “Is it ok, if I come back tomorrow?” he asked instead. There was such hope in his tone that Chris’ heart went out to him.

“I’d really like that,” Chris said. Lancelot almost smiled. “I just need to… ,” Chris gestured to the ropes while sinking down to better reach them. Again, Chris’ fingers strayed almost unnoticeable, caressing. When the legs were free, Chris took Lancelot’s hands and untied the knots there as well. A flash of red caught Chris’ eyes and Chris carefully pulled the sleeve back from Lancelot's left hand.

Angry red marks were painted on Lancelot’s wrist. Chris had to muffle a sob and impatiently tore the other sleeve back. On Lancelot’s right hand there were also marks from the rope. _The rope that I…_ Accusing eyes looked at Lancelot.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” – _Why didn’t I ask?_ – Chris’ voice broke.

“It’s nothing,” the monk insisted gruffly, trying to smooth down the sleeves. Chris looked reproachful and didn’t let him cover the injuries. Softly Chris stroked the battered skin.

“It’s not nothing to me. I don’t want to hurt you.” Lancelot just stared. Chris checked Lancelot’s legs. His muscles tensed as Chris’ fingers moved over the red marks there. Chris became aware of the intimacy of the gesture and stopped suddenly. Standing up Chris said, “Don’t go anywhere. I just need… “, before vanishing.

Lancelot took a deep breath and looked at his wrists, pensively. The rope had dug into the flesh, however there were no open wounds. Just some chafing. A fully expected injury, that would heal in no time and wasn’t restricting him at all. He worried his lip, fearing that Chris would send him away. After all, obviously the whole idea with the rope was upsetting to Chris. And here, he’d felt a twinge of happiness at Chris agreeing to try it and they’d even resumed part of their routine.

After being allowed back, Lancelot did not know how he could give this up again. Especially, since during the time on the chair his mind had quietened in a way only pain had managed before; no demon or Weeping Monk spitting angry words, fighting bitterly. Just Chris’ voice, weaving a tapestry of faith with threads of kindness and mercy. At that the Weeping Monk began to stir and the demon opened sleepy eyes. _Not now!_ Lancelot couldn’t lose control again, never again. Especially not near Chris.

He concentrated on the slight pain in his wrists and refused to let anything else enter his mind. Thus, he did not hear Chris coming back and was startled when gentle hands reached for him.

“I’ve brought ointment,” Chris explained while gesturing with the vial, “Give me your hands?” Lancelot held out his hands and watched fascinated with how much care Chris treated the abused skin. Lancelot still barred the demon and Weeping Monk from gaining a foothold in his mind by committing every little of Chris’ movements to memory instead.

Too soon Chris was satisfied with the treatment of his hands and moved on to his legs. Here, too, Chris worked diligently, tracing the marks softly and applying a generous amount of ointment. Lancelot wrapped this moment tightly around himself, almost disappearing in it. The gentle ministrations were so unfamiliar and yet, they awakened a longing in him with a force he hadn’t thought possible.

“All done,” Chris finally said and Lancelot almost thought he'd heard a note of regret in the declaration. But surely, he must have been mistaken.

“Thank you,” he croaked. Both stood hastily and just looked at each other. Lancelot started to worry anew that Chris would recant the previous invitation. In case Chris hadn’t yet thought of it, he didn’t want to suggest it to him by asking for clarification.

Now that Lancelot didn’t need immediate attention, Chris was sorting through the complex feelings that rose in response to the rope, the resulting injuries, and the intimacy of massaging the ointment into Lancelot’s skin. Chris’ fingertips tingled and every ounce of self-control was needed to not hug Lancelot close and never let go. In all honesty, the quiet fear that Lancelot would react with anger was also stopping Chris.

“So, tomorrow then?” Chris hesitantly asked instead. Lancelot couldn’t fight down the smile lighting up his expression. He nodded sharply, partly to conceal the uncontrolled emotional outburst and was turning to leave. He stopped in the middle of the movement.

“Thank you,” he whispered with such sincerity that it squeezed Chris’ chest.

“You’re welcome,” Chris whispered back, helplessly, and watched Lancelot leave with measured steps.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Notes: Thanks to everyone leaving kudos on this fic and a ❤️ to Beth for leaving a comment! It means the world to me. An espescially big thank you 💐 to [leilariddle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/leilariddle) for letting me witness her reaction to this fic in real-time. That was an exceptional experience and I can only encourage all readers, who feel comfortabel, to do just that (if you like, head over to my tumblr)! Also if you haven’t yet read her story, [go do so now](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25671112)). 
> 
> This chapter would not exist yet without the untiring cheering on (and motivational pics of Daniel) by [rebelbravado](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rebelbravado)! I cannot put into words how much our interactions mean to me, lovely 💖 💖 💖 
> 
> She’s also writing a beautiful Guinevere x Lancelot story 👉[you know what you have to do](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26028655)
> 
> Now, enjoy chapter 7 which again has a fair amount of hurt (and don’t worry, the next chapter already exists on paper)!

As they’ve agreed upon, Lancelot did keep showing up at dawn every day. Always with the rope in hand, insisting on being bound. Chris made sure never to tie him up too tightly. Lancelot disapproved if the tightness in his face was anything to go by and thankfully he didn’t voice his objections. Chris already felt conflicted about their new routine. Hurting Lancelot, even if he approved - especially if he approved? - was not something Chris was willing to do.

And yet, Chris still marveled at the way Lancelot relaxed into his restraints. How he let Chris’ words wash over him, soaking them up. Every time Lancelot closed his eyes, in order to concentrate on the words, Chris helplessly studied his face, the calm expression there, committing every angle and every mark to memory.

Helping Lancelot finding solace in the holy words brought a kind of satisfaction to Chris, especially since Chris feared what Lancelot had endured at the hands of the Red Paladins. The urge to ask specific questions about Lancelot’s time with them grew a little more each day. And yet, something in Chris feared to hear the truth. And so Chris stayed suspended in this new routine. At least the fear of Lancelot becoming violent again had vanished.

Or so Chris had thought.

Until one dawn, when the ropes failed to induce the familiar relaxation of Lancelot’s muscles. His eyes didn’t close once, his gaze was wandering restlessly. Chris felt a trickle of fear. The next few words were stuttered. Lancelot did not react to that, muscles still taut. Chris fumbled with the manuscripts, cleared the throat. Began anew, trying to ignore the icy grip of fear. Again words were stuttered. Still there was no reaction from Lancelot to that. Chris laid the manuscripts down with gently, measured movements. And to Chris’ shame, Chris’ eyes sought Lancelot’s restraints in reassurance. Chris’ breathing had accelerated.

“Lancelot…,” Chris’ voice shook only slightly. Lancelot immediately snapped his gaze to Chris. And he froze, recognizing the panicked behavior. Instantly he dropped his shoulders and lowered his head again.

“Tighten the restraints, if you need to,” he whispered. Chris felt something painful twisting the heart and, at the same time, a rage building low in the stomach. Chris didn’t even know where to direct the anger; at Lancelot, at the situation, at oneself?

“I don’t even know why I allow you back. Just the slightest sign from you that you’re distressed and I… I turn into...” Chris swallowed back hot tears. Lancelot’s expression was wretched.

“I won’t hurt you again,” Lancelot said in a quiet voice. “Tighten the restraints, if you need to,” he added, reiterating his previous proposal. Chris’ head shook, expression pained.

“But don’t you see? It’s not working! And it shouldn’t.” Lancelot closed his eyes and recoiled as if struck.

“What would you have me do?” he asked even quieter.

“Don’t you understand? There is nothing you can do. The very moment you tensed I panicked. I panicked, Lancelot!”

“Is it because I’m Fey?” The question was phrased in the flat tone of a statement. Chris stilled for a horrified heartbeat before answering forcefully, “No! It has nothing to do with you being Fey!” Chris took a deep breath and continued quieter, “It’s because you hurt me. I thought you had understood that.” Lancelot swallowed.

“Shall I smash my hands?” Chris thought at first it was a joke in bad taste. But Lancelot continued imploringly, “so they won’t hu-… .” A different kind of fear shot through Chris and before really deciding, Chris’ body hat already moved to Lancelot, Chris’ hands were cradling Lancelot’s. Tears were swimming in Chris’ eyes, throat closing up. It took some time before Chris felt able to talk again. In a firm voice Chris then said, “Don’t ever say something like this again.” Lancelot’s hands twitched.

“What then, Chris? I can’t… ,” Lancelot stopped himself from saying more. Chris’ rage vanished as suddenly as it had come.

“You can’t what?”

Lancelot’s voice was almost inaudible when he said, “I cannot lose this. Don’t send me away, please.” Chris bit down hard on the cheeks, fingers curling of their own volition around Lancelot’s and squeezing tightly. Lancelot opened his mouth again, intent on speaking. Then paused, an odd half-smile tugging on his lips. “Please tell me what you need to make this right again.” Lancelot’s gaze was piercing, Chris couldn’t look away.

“I can’t tell you that.” Lancelot averted his gaze, clenched his teeth and almost missed the next part. “Because I don’t know.” Lancelot peered at Chris. Chris’ face held a complicated expression and Lancelot could not decipher whether it was sadness or irritation or sympathy?

For a heartbeat Lancelot considered begging again – but just as fast he decided against it. He didn’t want to pressure Chris any more. It seemed neither his actions nor his words had the desired effect. Even the idea that seemed like it was working – him being tied to the chair – was only helping him and not Chris, as it turned out. He could’ve shouted with the unfairness of it all.

Chris’ grip on his hands turned painful and Lancelot realized that his muscles were tightly coiled.

“I’ll not hurt you,” he said reflexively. “I’m just… frustrated,” he added after a moments consideration. Chris’ hands relaxed but didn’t leave their position. Lancelot was glad for it. Chris wet dry lips.

“At what?” Lancelot raised his brows in surprise at the question.

“Myself,” he answered. Chris waited for an explanation but none was forthcoming. Lancelot was lost in his head again, tension returning. But this time Chris didn’t react with panic. An idea was forming.

“Can you tell me why?” Chris prompted.

“I...” Lancelot made that half-smile, half-grimace expression again. “I don’t know how,” he said slowly, while his mind was racing. Here Chris was finally telling him what to do and he couldn’t do it. _Failure. Worthless._ He clenched his teeth.

But he just couldn’t let Chris look into his innermost being – this was were the demon lived. And the demon would corrupt Chris. And Lancelot could not let this happen. Already, the demon had grown bolder, louder. And to Lancelot’s horror, the demon liked Chris’ interpretation of the scripture. Liked _Chris_. Wanted… . And Lancelot just knew that the demon would damn Chris’ soul if given the chance. Lancelot could not allow it.

“Lancelot,” Chris’ voice cut through his thoughts and Lancelot forcefully relaxed. Chris sighed and Lancelot needed every bit of self-control not to flinch. His mind came to a stuttering halt as Chris started caressing Lancelot’s hands, almost too soft to notice.

“I have an idea,” Chris said, “You might not like it. It is… a bit odd.” Lancelot nodded his head almost immediately. Chris worried the lip. “Tell me, please,” Lancelot said and his fingers twitched, wanting to copy Chris’ reassuring grip.

“You could – talk to God. And allow me to listen in?” It came out in a rush, in a high pitch, making it sound like a question. Lancelot’s furrowed brows were the only reaction for a long time. Chris started to fidget after a while, seemingly noticing only now the position of their hands. A slight blush colored Chris’ cheeks and Chris’ hands let go of Lancelot’s.

Finally, Lancelot started speaking in a measured voice, “Forgive me, but I thought you didn’t want me to punish myself?” Chris clasped Lancelot’s forearms so fast it seemed no conscious thought gad gone into the gesture.

“Of course I don’t want that!” Chris affirmed earnestly. Lancelot looked lost.

“I don’t understand.” And suddenly Chris could almost feel the scarred skin of Lancelot’s back, the horrifying criss-cross of it. And it dawned on Chris that Lancelot’s talks with God were always accompanied by self-flagellation. Chris was suddenly filled with rage. And this time, the target was clear. Whoever had done this to Lancelot, whoever had twisted faith like this needed to – needed to _burn_.

“I’m sorry! I did not… .” Chris swallowed. “Reaching out to God, talking with God, that does not have to be linked to self-punishment. Not here _._ Here _,_ you just... talk. You did that part too, right?” Chris winced at how the question sounded but Lancelot just nodded cautiously.

“So… ,” Chris was mulling over how to phrase the next request.

“You want me to talk to God, just with words. Out loud?” Lancelot said slowly.

“Only if you are comfortable with it,” Chris agreed, “I’ll just loosen the restraints and you can take your time deciding. I already said it’s a bit odd, right?”

“Yes, ok,” Lancelot said without missing a beat. Chris searched his face for signs of discomfort. There were none.

“Almighty God, I need your guiding light. I as not for myself, for I know my soul is forsaken”

– Chris harshly pressed the lips together to stifle the instinctual objections trying to arise –

“but for one of you flock. I don’t wish them any harm. Your light shines true in them, of this I am sure, whenever I am in Your house. Dispel my doubts in times I’m away. Silence the demon. Give me a sign, if my presence here causes harm and I’ll follow Your orders. _I don’t wish them any harm._ ”

– Chris felt a chill spreading from deep within at Lancelot’s tone of voice. It was despairing, pleading. He clenched his teeth briefly as if arguing with himself. –

“Almight God I beg of you, cast the doubts from my mind, silence the demon”

– Chris had to clench the fists to stop from going to Lancelot and… _what, exactly?_ –

“I want to do Your work, walk the path of light – may it be against my nature but I want it, I’ve striven for it. Every day, as long as I remember I’ve striven for it.”

– Lancelot’s back flashed before Chris’ eyes. –

“But maybe I can’t? Maybe Father should never have tried to save me from damnation, given me this wretched existence. This existence where I know of Your light and can never reach it.”

– Chris tasted something metallic and realized the inside of the cheek was bitten bloody. It didn’t hurt. –

“This existence, where every act I dedicate to You is a perversion of my nature. If I’m damned why allow me hope of salvation? If all we do is cast shadows why not strike us down so that we’ll light up briefly at least. You are love”

– Lancelot’s voice cracked on the last word. The longing Chris could hear was almost too much to bear.

– “how come You want Your flock to destroy us when it tears their souls? How can you demand that of them?”

– Chris knew then, with terrible certainty, that Lancelot meant Chris when saying _them_. Horror dawned, as understanding arose. Lancelot was frightened for Chris’ soul. Was frightened causing Chris’ damnation. Reeling from that realization had Chris almost miss the next few words, spoken quietly. –

“Why did You make us?” Chris had never heard that tone from Lancelot.

Lancelot leapt up. His eyes were big and wild and unseeing. Chris managed to catch his gaze for a short moment. And this shook Chris to the core. For Chris thought to already have witnessed Lancelot breaking, that first night in the church. But that night was almost _gentle_ compared to now. Lancelot was breaking – splintering – _violently_. And Chris was helpless to watch it. _I should have stopped_ _this_ _!_ But no regret, no matter how great, could prevent Lancelot from being ravaged by this hurricane of deep-seated beliefs and new-found faith.

Lancelot’s eyes sought Chris’ now. And Chris’ whole being froze. Despair and betrayal was clearly visible in Lancelot’s eyes.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all who are reading, commenting and leaving kudos! I treasure you all! Anytime you want to discuss the story or anything really, just drop by my tumblr :)  
> A very big thank you ✨ ✨ to rebelbravado and leilariddle whose help in figuring out how Chris and Lancelot get out of the hopeless situation they find themselves in was invaluable. If you haven’t yet read their fics, go do so now!

Chris bolted after Lancelot’ s retreating figure without making the conscious decision to. Though the  moment Chris’ mind caught up with that action, it wholeheartedly agreed.  Lancelot was fast – faster than Chris. He headed for the woods. With difficulty Chris avoided losing sight of him. Chris knew, the second Lancelot was in the woods it would be almost impossible to find  him then. 

So with burning muscles and an almost bursting lung Chris ran after Lancelot, whole being focused on catching him. And breath by wheezing breath the distance between them became smaller. And the woods came closer. Chris’ body felt as if it was on fire. It screamed for rest. But Chris pushed on, without knowing where the strength came from.

Lancelot threw a hurried glance backwards – _H_ _e_ must _already_ _know that I am following him?_ – and hesitated for an eyeblink. That hesitation filled Chris with new determination. 

“Lancelot.  W ait!” – Chris was near enough  that the words carried without shouting  – “ Please! Wait!” Chris gasped between breaths, the words scorching  the airways, “I’m sorry. Just. Wait!” And somehow Chris had caught up with Lancelot. Chris reached out and grabbed Lancelot’s arm in an iron grip. “Please. Lancelot. Wait,” Chris gasped, breathing hard. Lancelot had stilled. 

Chris needed a few moments to calm the wild heartbeat, thus didn’t immediately notice that Lancelot was practically vibrating with restless energy.  Upon noticing, fear and compassion were warring in Chris.  T he hand stayed firmly on Lancelot’s arm. “Lancelot…”

“What do you want from me!?” The question seemed to tear itself from Lancelot, fighting him all the way.

“I…”

“Is this a new kind of torture?”  –  Chris shook the head  – “ No less, than the demon deserves – ” Lancelot’s voice lowered to a contemplative whisper. Chris’ hand dug into Lancelot’s arm at hearing that last part.  Immediately,  Lancelot’s hand shot up, reacting to the perceived threat, and grabbed Chris’ wrist in a vice-like grip, stopping himself just barely from doing worse. Chris stifled a frightened scream but Lancelot could clearly hear the nervous  _ thump-thump _ of the  heartbeat. 

“This is torture to us both,” Lancelot  said , “You said it yourself, you can’t stand to be in the same room as me. So  why  are you? To fill my head with false hope? With talk about a merciful God? God is love but  _ never merciful _ . I know this.  I ntimately. No less, than I deserve.  But I’ll deliver you from this suffering. You should not have to suffer because of me. Demons don’t deserve mercy.”

“ _ You are not a demon! _ ” Chris’ shrill voice echoed through the woods. Lancelot’s expression twisted scornfully.  Pointedly he dropped Chris’ hand. 

“I promised you I’d never hurt you again. Let go of me so I at least can keep this.”

Chris felt close to vomiting. And even though Chris’ voice shook, Chris’ resolve did not.

“No.”

“Even this you’d take from me?” There was no accusation in Lancelot’s voice left, just abject defeat. 

The determination in Chris’ eyes, the intentional full-body movement, the tightening of Chris’ hand on his arms, all these  were clear indications to Lancelot that Chris was about to strike him, t hen . Thus, he couldn’t place the sensation that engulfed him next. It felt warm and sheltering. And unlike any punishment he’d ever experienced. He opened his eyes that had closed in preparation of the  strike and didn’t  comprehend what he was seeing. 

Chris clung to him, arms encircling his neck, body pressed firmly against his. Now the warmth made sense – it came directly from Chris.  Lancelot was too preoccupied with working through all these new impressions that it took him a few moments to notice that Chris was speaking quietly, repeating with conviction, “You won’t hurt me. I know it.” 

When he understood the words he felt more thoroughly flayed then even he could’ve done to himself.

“Stop, Chris,” Lancelot whispered. This only made Chris speak with greater conviction, refusing to give in. On a sigh, Lancelot said, “We’ll both burn in hell, Chris.” Chris tightened the embrace.

“We won’t.” Lancelot’s legs stopped working and he sank down. Chris went with him, careful not to loose contact. A full-body shiver had enveloped Lancelot and Chris just held him tighter.

“We’ll burn in hell, Chris!”  Chris wanted to object but Lancelot continued, “because I hate Him.” It was said in whispered voice, devoid of the anger from before.  Chris had to smother the “Me too”  clawing to escape while  Lancelot’s desperate and accusing  _ Why did You make us? _ swirled in Chris’ mind.

“It’s ok,” Chris said instead, “He forgives even your darkest thoughts. His love for every one of us is all-encompassing.”

“ Stop. Stop it, Chris.  _ There is no us, _ ” spit Lancelot, “I am a demon! You know this – I’ve told you! I am a demon and I hate him and I’ll never earn his forgiveness!” Chris’ teeth ground. Chris’ head shook in denial. Chris’ thoughts raced. These  beliefs were etched so deeply into Lancelot’s  soul, filling up the cracks flayed into him.  W aiting, to spill  like poison from his lips.  Drowning Chris’ arguments. 

“You have to go, Chris. I am damned but you can repent.” Lancelot’s voice had turned pleading. Chris refused to answer, frantically searching for anything to say, to make Lancelot understand. “Please, Chris. I beg you, please! Don’t let me be your downfall. I couldn’t…,” Lancelot faltered. Turned his face heavenward. “Is _this_ then my punishment? It’s too much!” He faced Chris, blue eyes so very wide. _Afraid_ , Chris realized. “Repent, Chris! And I promise you!” Lancelot took big gulping breaths and continued imploringly, “I promise I’ll punish myself. I’ll make sure it’s just. I’ll make sure it’s pertinent. _So that you don’t have to.”_ Lancelot stilled suddenly, shivers abating. 

O h, Chris thought absent-mindedly, so this is what it feels like when the heart is breaking.  Then Chris pushed that thought aside. There was no place for it. The only thing  filling Chris was the overwhelming feeling of helplessness. Chris was surprised at being able to breath since the feeling was suffocating.

A tentative touch on the cheek made Chris look to Lancelot. His face was full of regret, and almost reverently he traced Chris’ path of tears. A calm settled over Chris starting at Lancelot’s fingertips, sweeping  aside the awful feeling of being  drowned in powerlessness, fighting underwater, where no one can hear  the scream s for help . The moment seemed to stretch and grow until it engulfed the past and the future and nothing else existed but this  moment .

T hen Lancelot’s face shifted and, almost too quietly to hear, he uttered, “Please, Chris.” The moment shattered in a million tiny pieces and Chris  was so sure of feeling them embedding themselves into Chris’ flesh. 

“ Enough!” Chris pushed Lancelot’s hand away  roughly ,  grabbed his collar and moved so close their noses were almost touching. “Enough already, God damn you!” Chris hissed, while all the helplessness violently changed into anger. Lancelot stilled and lowered his head. Like he was expecting some kind of punishment. Like he was submitting to it. 

“Enough,” Chris said again, voice cracking. Lancelot’s expression twitched and he glanced up at Chris’ face. Again he traced, almost involuntary but so softly, the dried tear paths on Chris’ cheeks.

“I need you to understand… .” 

Chris cut him off, “Oh, I understand plenty. It’s you who doesn’t understand!”  Chris’s warm breath caressed Lancelot’s face. Chris needed a moment  to  _ think. _ But Chris’ mind was stuck on Lancelot bowing his head in submission, how Lancelot’s every solution so far seemed to include some idea of punishment.  It almost felt to Chris like he yearned for it.

Chris entire being revolted at the thought of being complicit in anything like that while at the same time it almost resigned to it. After all, it was Chris’ suggestion that had put them into this hopeless situation. It was only right that Chris was the one to get both of them out of this. Chris already saw their future selfs before the inner eye. Lancelot kneeling, Chris standing over him, putting new wounds on him, while also flaying him with the hateful words Lancelot used to describe himself. _Demon_. _Undeserving of forgiveness._ _Forsaken._ Bile rose. Chris fought against losing composure. 

“Stand up,” Chris bit out. Lancelot complied with the request instantly and with an air of someone familiar and comfortable with following orders. 

“It’ll all be ok.” – Chris wasn’t sure who the reassurance was for – “I’m sorry for doing this to you.” – Chris glanced at Lancelot whose expression gave nothing away but patience – “I’ll make it right again,” Th is part was mumbled, directed at Chris’ self.  Chris took a deep breath. “You feel you deserve to be punished,” it was a half-question, half-statement. And  it made Lancelot react. He opened his mouth, no doubt to spout some  more nonsense about how this was the way of things. But Chris’ piercing look kept him quiet. And so he just nodded his head. 

“Well then, so shall it be,” Chris concluded. Lancelot looked surprised, while Chris was searching for something – a branch maybe? – to carry out the punishment and at the same time fighting to keep the stomach content s down.  While surveying the surroundings,  inspiration struck.  Relief flooded Chris. This could actually work.  It had to.  So,  Chris stepped closer to Lancelot and peered into his eyes.

“I will oversee your punishment. This means, I’ll choose what it is. _And_ I choose when it’s enough. Agreed?” The answering “Yes!” came out in a rushed breath, almost longingly. Chris took a deep breath. And then another.

“Follow me, then.” And Lancelot had to fight down the instinctive “Until the end of the world.”

L ancelot could keep the raging storm inside him at bay with the sweet promise of punishment. Though he still tried to solve the puzzle of Chris not only agreeing to it but also offering to carry it out.  But that was on the edge of his awareness and mostly he enjoyed the calmness settling over him. Finally he  felt like was on even ground. He knew  the next steps intimately. It was reassuring. Chris was right, everything would be  alright now. 

C hris stopped in front of a convent and turned to Lancelot, “Remember, you do exactly what I say.” Lancelot nodded quickly. Chris nodded too and led him to the courtyard. 

“ See all that wood there? I want you to split it.” Chris’ voice was controlled and almost devoid of emotion. Lancelot blinked. Crinkled his forehead. 

“The… wood,” he repeated slowly, “You want me to... split the wood?” Chris took Lancelot’s confused expression in. Wanted to reassure him. But Chris could not allow another debate to ensue. And this was likely to happen if Chris tried to explain. Therefore, it was with a guilty consciousness and a firm voice that Chris said, “Are you questioning your punishment?” 

Lancelot lowered his head in deference.

“ Forgive me .”  Anything!  Everything! Chris wanted to shout, I forgive you everything. Everything you can’t forgive yourself. Instead, Chris said,

“Good. You’ll be splitting wood until I deem the punishment over. In the meantime I’ll need to leave for a bit. I trust that you’ll continue splitting wood until I’m back. And don’t talk to anyone while I’m gone! Now, begin.” Lancelot nodded and set to work.  His mind was still confused about what the punishment was supposed to be. Chris had seen his back, so Chris had to know…! 

But Chris had also made it clear that Lancelot was to follow Chris’ lead. So Lancelot gathered the tattered remains of his faith and put them firmly around Chris. If Chris wanted him to split wood, he’d split wood. He was  _ not _ to question his punishment. 

S o instead Lancelot focused on the feel of the ax in his hands, the way it cut through the air and wood. Ka-thunk. How each strike reverberated in his arms. _Ka-thunk._ How the freshly split wood filled his senses with that distinct smell. _Ka-thunk._ He did not notice at which point Chris actually left him, he was that lost in the work. _Ka-thunk. Ka-thunk. Ka-thunk._


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, kudos and comments are treasured!  
> Enjoy :)

Chris was nervous. Chris hadn’t been that nervous to speak with the Abbess since being a child and sneaking into forbidden rooms and listening in to midnight conversations definitely not meant for children’s ears. Chris’ lower lip was already chewed bloody when finally the abbess’s dark wooden door appeared. The firm knock did not betray Chris’ nervousness. 

“Mother Superior? It’s me, Chris.”

“Chris?” The voice of the Mother Superior sounded half asleep, “What has happened?” Chris walked through the door with easy familiarity. The Mother Superior was already standing and reaching for her day clothes. “ Where am I needed?” she asked urgently. Chris was still sorting thoughts. When no immediate answer came, the Mother Superior stopped and turned to look at Chris properly. “Chris?” she prompted.

“It’s… not like you think. No one needs immediate attention.”  The Mother Superior did not relax  but she did sit down rigidly. 

“What is it, then?”

“I do need your help,” Chris confirmed unnecessarily. The Mother Superior studied Chris intently. 

“What kind of help, dear?” Chris rubbed tired hands over the eyes. The Mother Superior patted the bed besides her. “Sit down, Child.” Chris took the invitation gratefully. “Now, tell me everything.” Chris took a deep breath.

“There is someone that needs my help – our help.  I – ”  and then Chris  burst into tears .  Without hesitation  Mother Superior put her arms around Chris and was soon rubbing soothing circles into Chris’ back. They sat like this until Chris regained composure. 

“Sorry,” Chris muttered, “I -” 

“None of that,” interrupted Mother Superior, “How can we help?” 

“There is a man in your courtyard, right now, splitting wood.” Mother Superior blinked. Twice. “It’s a long story, Arleigh,” Chris warned.

“And you don’t seem to want to tell me. Why? Are we in danger?”

“No!” Mother Superior raised her eyebrows at the outburst.  Chris felt acutely reminded of the childhood in the cloister. Mother Superior wiped the last remnants of tears from Chris’ cheek regretfully.

“Chris, I can’t help you if I don’t know what you need. So tell me. Who is that man?” Chris closed the eyes, firmly. 

“You know him as the Weeping Monk.” Mother Superior turned her gaze heavenwards. Then she studied Chris’ miserable expression. 

“And why is the Weeping Monk in our courtyard, splitting wood?”

“I didn’t know what else to do,” said Chris in a small voice. 

“I’m gonna need more than this, Chris! But first I’ll warn the others to stay away from the courtyard. And then, you’ll tell me everything.” Mother Superior did leave no room for arguments.

\---

L ancelot was so engrossed in his work that he noticed the desperate cries only when it was too late. The child was tugging at his robes and he almost took his head for it. Barely managed to divert the ax so that it missed, the second he understood this was no attack. 

“Sir, come quick! You gotta help us, sir! My sister...!” And Lancelot did not fail to notice the metallic taste in the air, the bloodstains on the boy’s clothes, the boy’s swollen face.  He also noticed a second figure in the distance, huddled over. It was barely a woman, badly injured, if the nauseating tang drifting towards him was anything to go by. The boy was tugging more insistently on his robes now. “She can’t walk anymore. Please help!” The child’s voice took on a panicked note. Lancelot felt paralyzed. Chris had told him to wait here and to not speak with anyone. But the siblings were cloaked in fear and blood – such a familiar smell that Lancelot could almost feel Father Carden standing besides him, a normally comforting thought. But now the thought of Father Carden being nearby  caused panic and Lancelot threw a superstitious look around. The relief that came at not seeing that figure wars accompanied by guilt and left a bitter taste. Or was that the taste of fear coming from the woman lying in the grass. In the meantime, the child had abandoned trying to get Lancelot to move and ran back to his sister. 

Such a familiar scene! Only, it wasn’t quite right. He’d have to stand over the woman and cut her in half. Scare the child into leaving. But those two weren’t Fey. And still they were in desperate search for help. Which they’d hoped to find at this cloister. 

Lancelot started to walk towards the two. The woman was still alive and that filled him with such strong emotions he couldn’t quite place. He nodded to the child and bend down to pick the woman up.  And froze indecisively. 

Now he could see the entirety of the damage done to her. A broken leg, swollen face, lacerations and cuts on her arms and legs.  She was breathing fast and shallowly, and Lancelot was afraid she’d crumble if he picked her up. But without his help she would surely die, too. Thus, with precise movements Lancelot took her into his arms, making sure to move her as little as possible.

The weight of her in his arms, her shivering and feverish body against his was a wholly unknown sensation and it send nervous electric currents through his arms. He walked briskly, still making sure the woman was moved as little as possible. Each faint groan from her made him readjust his step. All his senses were focused on her, every little cue prompted him to react. Such level of concentration on another he only gained in fights, when every fiber of his being was working towards a common goal and every twitch of his opponent could mean the difference between life and death.

Now, both of them might live if he could just get everything right. 

Before long Lancelot had reached a dark wooden door, behind which he could hear voices.  And he realized that his body had guided him to Chris, following the familiar scent. With a movement of his head Lancelot told the child to open the door. Immediately, the voices quietened and Lancelot could make out two figures. 

\---

“ What aren’t you telling me?” Arleigh asked sharply. With great difficulty Chris prevented a flinch.

“What do you mean?” Chris asked, almost managing to sound normal. 

“The Weeping Monk is in the cloister’s courtyard, splitting wood. Clearly, you’ve omitted some things. Since I find no explanation of this in what you’ve told me so far.” Arleigh’s eyes glinted dangerously. Chris gulped. Sighed. 

Then said slowly, “The Red Paladins, they raised him from what gathered. And… you know his reputation. Arleigh raised her eyebrows questioningly. Chris just looked at her.  Then elaborated, “[I told you how lost he is. How twisted his version of faith.] Imagine his childhood!” Arleigh understood. 

“He’s a victim of abuse?” Chris flinched. Then nodded. 

“Leigh, the way he talks about himself, the way he behaves – I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s…“ Chris struggled for words. Arleigh’s expression was horrified. Both of them were acutely aware of what it meant that Chris had no frame of reference for Lancelot’s behavior. 

“I tried so hard to help him, Leigh! I tried so hard.”  Chris closed the eyes and felt a familiar wetness on the cheeks. “And I made it so much worse. Every time.” Arleigh enveloped Chris in a hug.

“I  commend you for seeing a man in need and trying to help him, no matter his background. It truly warms my heart, Chris.” 

“Leigh, just – don’t,” Chris sighed. 

“Someone needs to look out for you, my dear.” Arleigh wiped Chris’ tears away. “I’ll always look out for you. And clearly things have happened between you two that are hard on you – even if you refuse to tell me what.”  Arleigh was looking at Chris imploringly.

“ It’s not his fault!” Chris said and immediately regretted it. It sounden like a victim defending their abuser. This wasn’t what was happening between them. Not at all. But Arleigh had this almost satisfied expression about her and Chris could not let this stand.

“It’s hard, helping him. He’s all twisted up, I told you! The way they raised him, the way he sees God, the way he sees himself… . It’s horrifying. But that is not his fault. And he wants help. He wants to change. It’s just… “

“Hard?” Arleigh asked. Chris sighed. “Don’t be angry with me, Chris. I love you like you were my child.  Seeing you like this hurts me. You must know it’s a bad idea to socialize with the Weeping Monk. His reputation alone is terrifying as you pointed out. And now, there are rumors of him turning against the Church. But all this I could ignore. What I can’t ignore is your pain, unlike you, it seems.”  Chris felt like a child, being reprimanded for staying awake too long. Chris’ hands balled into fists.

“That’s not – You don’t know –” frustrated Chris stopped talking. Arleigh gave Chris a patient look. 

“I know, Chris. And I can see that you are barely holding it together. Now, my first instinct is to march down to your monk” – Chris’ cheeks warmed inexplicably – “and tell him to leave you alone/chase him away/tell him off.” Before Chris could protest, Arleigh smiled kindly. “Don’t worry, I won’t. I see how much you care about him. I heard you, when you said you needed help.” Arleigh paused. Chris breathed a sigh of relief. 

“ But I also see how this is hurting you. You are taking on too much.” Chris bit the inside of the cheek to not react like a child. But every part if Chris wanted to shout out the denial. Instead, Chris said in a calmly controlled tone, “He’s the one taking on too much. And whatever burden I carry now, I put that on myself. I put that on the both of us –” Chris trailed off, attention focused on reliving Lancelot’s despair. 

“You were always quick to take on the blame for things beyond your control,” Arleigh said into the silence. Chris’ expression turned hard.

“I  _ am _ to blame. I pushed too far! I was trying to – actually it doesn’t matter what I was trying to do. He’s a survivor of abuse and instead of respecting his boundaries I pushed too far. And he – it was too much for him.  H e practically begged me to punish him,” Chris’ voice had a hysterical note to it, “You remember Elizabeth? How she’d hurt herself when –“ Arleigh was quick to nod her head. Elizabeth was by no means the only child from an abusive household that reacted with self-harm to her toxic home life, though she was the most extreme case. 

“He begged me because he thinks that’s what he deserves. He thinks – God!” the last word came out on a breath and Chris shook the head. Chris’ expression turned unforgiving. “ They warped his mind. Warped it around a faith that –  that despises his very existence” – Arleigh frowned as though knowing that there was a deeper meaning here, but it escaped her – “That faith is the only thing holding him together. And at the same time it burrows into his very soul, wounding him deeply… If he let’s go he’ll fall apart and if he holds on he’ll bleed out.” Chris fell silent and took a deep breath. “And I think I made him face that. So, he begged me. And I said yes. That’s why he’s in your courtyard, splitting wood. It’s his punishment. Happy now?”  The last few sentences came out in a rush. Arleigh’s face held a horrified expression but Chris could not guess why. 

“You agreed to punish him?” Arleigh said slowly, somewhere between a question and a statement. 

“Yes!” Chris lost all patience, not reacting like a child be damned, “Yes, I did! Did you not hear a word I said?! Otherwise you’d know that was the right thing to do. You’d have done the same! If need be I’d have whipped him bloody, too!” Chris’ expression crumbled and turned nauseated. Arleigh wasted no time and wrapped Chris gently in her arms. Chris relaxed into the hug – though a small part waited for the inevitable “you take on too much”. It didn’t come. Instead, Arleigh murmured, “I’m glad you didn’t.” Chris’ mouth turned dry all of a sudden  and a bone-crushing weight settled on Chris’ chest.

“Me too.” 

\---

Lancelot could make out two figures. His gaze settled on Chris and that’s when  the faint but unmistakable taste of salt hit him. Chris had been crying and Lancelot almost dropped the weight in his arms to go for his sword. Then rage rose like a tidal wave. And he had to draw his muscles taut to stop it from escaping him, his skin the last defense.  Any worries about how Chris would react upon seeing that Lancelot defied orders were thoroughly wiped from his mind. His mind filled with only one thought.  It  shouted at him to defend Chris, to draw his sword and plunge it into the woman besides Chris for the  offense of hurting Chris. 

“ Can you help us, please!?” The child sounded so frightened. The woman besides Chris – and only now Lancelot noticed that Chris was  _ leaning _ on her – turned into a flurry of motions. 

“You” – she pointed to Lancelot – “come with me to the infirmary.  Quick ly now . ”  And she was already out the door.  Lancelot followed after a reassuring look from Chris. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been a long time coming. I recommend listening to [Saturn by Sleeping at Last](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o-mxNRHU-Gw) while reading.  
> Enjoy!

Lancelot was up to both elbows in sticky blood and covered with sweat all over.

“We’ve done everything we can”, Arleigh had said after hours of gruesome work – the smell of blood and tears and vomit and fear still clung to Lancelot, nauseating him. During the whole ordeal of racing frantically to heal the poor woman – Hannah – he hadn’t had much time to do anything else than act as ordered. So he’d dragged buckets full of water and waste, made a fire, applied ointment where ordered, cleaned gaping flesh.

The majority of the work, however, had been undertaken by Chris and Arleigh, who worked so well together, they only needed nods and hand gestures to communicate. They’d worked for hours, tireless and with grim expressions.

Lancelot marveled at their perseverance at the edge of his consciousness. But his mind was still stuck there in the infirmary and worked and worked and worked against the invisible enemy. There was just _so much damage_ to be undone. No, not undone. Tended to. Cared for. Because it would take months until she – Hannah – would be healed, Arleigh had said, _months!_ And even then, the damage would leave marks, this Lancelot knew intimately. If she survived. And Lancelot had to force the image of her blue-beaten body from his mind with all of his willpower.

He was no stranger to violence and damage. He’d inflicted his fair share. But he took no pleasure in drawing the death out, no pleasure in inflicting pain. Death at his hands was quick – most often than not.

The smell of burnt hair and flesh and the screams filled his senses forcefully. Burning was no kind death. He exhaled sharply. It may not be kind but it would deliver salvation. And in the end, the fate of the eternal soul weighted heavier than that of the mortal body.

But there was no excuse for torturing the Fey when trying to get to the Green Knight. No noble cause to explain that – _Shall we untwist his stomach?_ Lancelot threw up.

“Lancelot? I’m all done, you can go wash up now.” Chris came up from the stream they had gone to after there was no more work for them at the infirmary and ran to Lancelot after seeing him keeled over. Chris had grasped the situation immediately and nudged Lancelot towards the water. Lancelot was unresisting, still caught up in the horror of violence.

“Lancelot, come now, wash up. You’ll feel better afterwards.”

“It doesn’t matter whether I wash up. I’m steeped in blood and…” Was it the thought or the realization made words, Lancelot could not say, but he had to throw up again. Miserably retching he was bent forward. Chris did not leave his side and put the hand in a reassuring gesture on Lancelot’s shoulder.

“After my first patient I was sick, too,” Chris said quietly. Lancelot shook his head violently. Although Chris had to know about his deeds, he was reluctant to point them out. Reluctant to tell Chris how many he’d harmed similarly to the woman Chris had so tirelessly tried to save… . _It wasn’t the same_ , the monk insisted, _the demons, they’_ _d_ _deserved everything done to them. It_ _was_ _a kindness to burn them and thus deliver them to the light, to salvation_.

Lancelot balled his fists. The smell was the same. The screams were the same. It looked the same. It _felt_ the same. Thus, no matter how the monk insisted, Lancelot was no longer convinced of the veracity of his beliefs. He felt sick to his stomach and a self-hatred in an intensity that strangled him rose.

Because Lancelot was demon-born and trying to walk the path of Light, self-hatred was an old acquaintance but the quality and quantity of it took him by surprise. Whereas being demon-born was a burden that weighted on him but that he did not cause, this present burden was one caused solely by his actions, his choices.

His gaze fell on his blood-stained hands and that brought on an avalanche of memories, a gallery of grotesque, resigned, angry, nameless faces of Fey, crying out for help and falling silent due to him. He’d cut all of them down without hesitation. Rage swelled and Lancelot had the sudden urge to cut off those sin-laden hands. As if he could cut off the sin with them.

He knew he couldn’t, the same way he knew that saving Percival from Brother Salt was the right thing to do. This truth seared his soul. But now there was nothing he could do about it. No amount of punishment could outweigh his actions, no matter how vicious the punishment.

Lancelot had gone rigid under Chris’ fingers and unnaturally still. Chris was at a loss to know how to help him. If this were not the Weeping Monk but anyone else, Chris would be rubbing soothing circles into his back. But Lancelot’s unpredictability in such critical situations kept Chris from trying it, as Chris’ quickening heartbeat attested to.

But Chris was to blame for Lancelot’s unstable state, Chris was the one that pushed too far – first with the idea of the prayer. And instead of helping him calm down, Chris again brought him into a difficult situation, used Lancelot without making sure he was fine with it, fine with doing the gruesome work of tending to Hannah’s injuries.

Chris clenched the jaw and forbade the tears to flow. Chris _had to_ get them both through this. So Chris took every bit of self-control and spoke firmly but gently, “Lancelot?” No reaction. Lancelot did not seem to have heard Chris. Chris became more timid, “Lancelot? Can you hear me?” Again, no reaction.

Chris swallowed several times.

“Please, Lancelot – say something. Anything!” Chris pleaded. This request also fell on deaf ears. So Chris gathered all courage and made eye contact. Lancelot’s expression was hard and tense – _unforgiving –_ and Chris almost bolted. Almost.

But Chris stayed. Chris stayed because Lancelot’s cheeks were wet.

Lancelot was crying silent tears, eyes fixed on his hands and whole body so, so still. Taking in Lancelot’s quiet desperation, the way he made no sound and no movement, the way he almost seemed to be disappearing into the background, the way he could not take his eyes of his blood-stained hands send a cold shiver of understanding down Chris’ spine. And Chris knew with a terrible certainty that Lancelot was caught in his past, was caught in the violence and death he had dealt. The smell of blood and other unspeakable things was in the air, in his clothes and that must have thrown Lancelot’s mind back into his past.

Helplessly Chris brushed Lancelot’s tears from his cheek. Even now there was no reaction.

“Lancelot, come into the water. You’ll feel better afterwards.” Nothing. Chris was worried, and the more Lancelot cried silent tears, the worse Chris felt. _You did this!_ Chris squared the shoulders, searched for the commanding voice and said, “Stand up.” For an eye-blink, nothing happened.

But then Lancelot rose slowly and Chris released a breath.

“Come with me,” Chris instructed in the same tone of voice. Chris pushed Lancelot with gentle force towards the stream. Chris’ mind held firm onto the idea that once Lancelot got cleaned, he’d feel better.

Lancelot felt as if he moved through thick fog. Chris’ stern voice did manage to pierce it and Lancelot obeyed every request naturally. Chris’ voice – _I choose when it’s enough –_ echoed through his mind.

Thus, Lancelot did not find it strange that Chris helped him out of his cloak and overgarments. After all, only in this way the punishment could have its full effect. Lancelot waited patiently for the blows to fall. Chris was rustling behind him but Lancelot did not dare to turn his head. After some time silence fell. And suddenly Lancelot felt Chris’ hands on his back, one finger tracing involuntarily one of the longer scars. It only took a moment and then Chris again applied gentle force to get Lancelot into the water. It was cold at first and Lancelot welcomed that strong sensation. But too soon he had acclimated to the temperature.

“Kneel,” Chris’ voice wavered imperceptibly. The water now reached Lancelot’s chest. Chris was also submerged in the water and went around Lancelot so that they were face-to-face. Lancelot’s gaze was still fixed on his hands.

“Give me your right hand, Lancelot.” Chris held the own hand outstretched, palm facing upwards. A slight hesitation, Lancelot’s gaze darted to Chris and immediately lowered again. Then Lancelot’s hand was in Chris’.

For a breath both stood motionless, each in their own way overwhelmed by the feeling of being connected to one another. Slowly, as not to spook Lancelot, or maybe to make the moment last, Chris clasped Lancelot’s larger hand. With the thumb Chris drew small circles on Lancelot’s knuckles. The unexpectedness of the gesture almost made Lancelot flinch. So did the chaos of emotions following. Confusion. Shame. Need.

Chris misunderstood, “Oh! I’m sorry, if I hurt you! But I’ll need some force to get rid of the blood.” And indeed, the blood was slowly flaking off. The light skin appearing seemed so _wrong_ to Lancelot that he tried to remove his hand from Chris’ grasp. Chris held on with a surprising amount of strength. Then Chris made eye contact. Lancelot’s eyes were wide with fright.

“Let me do this for you” – Chris’ thumb was now gliding deliberately through Lancelot’s fingers and turned to rub Lancelot’s palm – “Because you already did so good today, Lancelot.” A choked sound escaped Lancelot. “You did marvelous,” Chris repeated, “There was hardly any time to tell you before, but: I am very proud of you for finding us when Hannah needed help. That might yet save her life!”

Lancelot felt a weight being lifted because he had been worried about disobeying Chris’ orders and a soothing warmth spread. But the view of his hands dispelled the warmth momentarily and the self-hatred returned with a force that Lancelot wondered how he was still upright.

“And you helped us so much at the infirmary. You did everything we asked of you without complaint even when it was hard on you. You did it with a care that left us impressed.” Chris now took Lancelot’s other hand and squeezed both.

“Your hands did God’s work today.”

“Chris!” Lancelot gasped caught somewhere between horror and… wonder.

“Sh,” Chris soothed, before Lancelot could formulate counterarguments, “You agreed that I’d decide the length and form of your punishment. So you’ll listen now without interruption.” Chris winced at how it sounded and was hasty to add, “Unless you can’t bear it anymore. I need you to tell me to stop, then!” Chris’ voice took on a pleading quality.

Lancelot nodded quickly, eyes still – or again? – wide and scared. And so Chris concentrated on the task of cleaning Lancelot’s hands thoroughly and without causing pain. Chris was weaving their fingers together to then enclose Lancelot’s hand completely, afterwards gliding up Lancelot’s arm and then returning back to Lancelot’s palm, fingertips dancing slowly over the soft flesh there.

“You did so good, Lancelot,” Chris murmured every once in a while with a conviction that brooked no argument.

Lancelot’s mind felt at once too numb and too turmoilt. He was caught between the urge to lash out (never again!), run away (but Chris hadn’t allowed him to leave yet) and _wanting…_ . His mind stuttered. There was the Weeping Monk looming dangerously, waiting to gain a larger foothold again. And the demon was lurking, however, Lancelot almost felt that the demon had left his mind to the same extent to which he had barred the monk.

Lancelot could not examine those thoughts closer so he concentrated on Chris. The feel of Chris’ hands on his, how very careful Chris treated them. Like they were precious to Chris.

Not only that, but Chris also claimed to be proud and impressed by him. Was so sure that Lancelot _did good_. Lancelot had to suppress a full-body shudder. But he could not suppress the goosebumps that spread in response to Chris’ earnest proclamations. And with them came feelings Lancelot could not identify. (If only he could flee, get his control back.) His skin felt too tight, his body too small to contain those feelings.

A half-strangled sob escaped him and he snapped his mouth shut. But low in his throat a whimper bubbled up. Chris reacted immediately and with no conscious thought to the pure _need_ in Lancelot’s voice.

And Chris was pressed up against Lancelot, cradling Lancelot’s head, fingers buried deep in Lancelot’s hair and holding on tight – almost painfully so. Lancelot wrapped his arms reflexively around Chris in a gesture buried deep in suppressed memories, in equal parts seeking support and needing to feel Chris against himself.

Chris’ hands were moving slowly, soothingly against his scalp and Lancelot pressed his head helplessly against them, greedily seeking more contact. Lancelot _want_ _ed_. Wanted to believe Chris. But he already did. He did and that terrified him in a wholly unfamiliar manner. Because how could he do good when he was demon-born? How could he do good when all he’d ever done was breaking bodies, dealing violence. Damage. Damage impossible to fix.

But Chris had told him this was his punishment, to listen. So he did. He listened to Chris’ strong voice, telling him tirelessly _how good he did_. The words washed over him, engulfed him and he felt like they were easing an old hurt that hadn’t healed, that was still raw and open and that had been his constant companion for so long he forgot how it was without it. But now he remembered.

Chris’ hands wandered to his face, wiping away tears he hadn’t realized he’d wept. Chris’ touch was so tender, almost reverent. And Lancelot realized with horror that Chris was tracing his Fey markings, so softly, almost ghosting over them, warming Lancelot’s face. Lancelot should stop Chris from touching those cursed markings, should wrench himself away, should do everything in his power to save Chris from damnation… .

But Lancelot was leaning into the comforting gesture, moving his cheek almost imperceptibly against Chris’ fingers, seeking more. Breathing a soft gasp against Chris’ palm which was _right there_. His eyes had closed – maybe when Chris had started following his markings with light fingertips or maybe when his lips had brushed Chris’ palm.

He didn’t care he just needed this to last, needed to stay in this moment, filling all his senses with Chris. Chris, whose breathing stuttered. Whose fingers were now gently moving over his brows, over his closed lids.

“Oh, your eyes,” Chris whispered, for now Chris could see how red-rimmed and swollen they were. Chris had to bite the lip in order to not lay an impulsive kiss on Lancelot’s eyelid.

“Hold still,” Chris said instead and one hand left Lancelot’s face. Lancelot was not prepared for the deep feeling of emptiness that followed. But Chris’ hand returned a short moment later and then Chris let cool water run through the fingers, onto Lancelot’s eyes, his cheeks. Washing Lancelot’s face oh so gently. The gesture almost seemed – dare he think it? – _sacred_.

“Is this ok?” Chris asked in a hoarse voice. The answering “yes” was more a drawn-out sigh than a word and Lancelot wondered at it because that surely was not his voice. His eyes felt cooled, the water freshened him and he felt strangely vitalized by it.

Too soon Chris slowed down movements and there was a hitch in Chris’ breath.

Lancelot’s hands at Chris’ sides twitch in response and Chris paused. Dropped the hands from Lancelot’s face to his hands.

“I wasn’t exactly finished,” Chris said gently, an almost playful quality to the voice. And before Lancelot could answer – he wouldn’t even know how, he was just so thankful that he got to stay longer in this moment – Chris turned with the back to Lancelot and returned to treating Lancelot’s hands.

Chris exerted marginally more pressure against Lancelot’s front side than was strictly necessary. So marginal, that hardly anyone would notice. But Lancelot did and he marveled at it because that surely had to mean that Chris enjoyed this, too.

And Chris was taking such care with his hands, slowly rubbing the last of the blood from them, almost dragging fingers lazily over his skin, which had started to prickle.

Then, Chris’ hands stilled and they squeezed Lancelot’s.

“There, all nice and clean again,” Chris declared, having bitten back the “beautiful” at the last second.

“Thank you,” Lancelot’s deep voice washed over Chris and left a pleasant shiver in its wake. But there was still the smell of fear and death faint in the air, so Chris turned to Lancelot, only mildly worried that the warmth Chris felt did translate to a flushed face. Their gazes met and Lancelot's held such an open expression that all worry left Chris and Chris could do nothing else but delight in Lancelot.

And Chris’ hand found its way involuntarily to Lancelot’s cheek, gently brushing it and then slid into his hair. And Chris gathered all courage – because Chris knew about the intimacy of it, about the meaning for a monk – and asked hesitantly, “May I…?” And Lancelot only took a second to comprehend the question and was quick to reply, “Whatever you like.” And he was already opening his hair.

Chris almost broke down at the gesture – the utter trust Lancelot was displaying. Curls framed Lancelot’s precious face a moment later, making him seem soft and young. And Lancelot looked at Chris expectantly, did a little head tilt as if to say _Now what?_

“Trust me,” Chris said and both of them knew that he did. And Chris laid both hands on Lancelot’s back, always careful of the scars there as if afraid they’d break open again, and Chris instructed Lancelot to fall back, lift his feet up. And Lancelot did so in the same heartbeat that Chris stopped explaining.

And, oh, Lancelot’s body remembered floating on water, even though the memory of _where_ and _who_ did not resurface in his mind, so he opened his arms and legs reflexively and relaxed. That feeling of weightlessness that followed, carried a freedom with it that Lancelot clutched at desperately.

“Good,” Chris praised, “stay like this?” Truthfully, Lancelot could not imagine ever wanting to leave this position.

Then Chris began combing fingers through Lancelot’s hair, which was thick and lush, patiently working out the tangles until Chris reached Lancelot’s scalp. With soothing force Chris’ fingers began to massage at Lancelot’s nape. Slowly but surely, knowledgeably. And goosebumps spread through Lancelot’s body like an electric current. Chris moved slowly, up, up, massaging his temples, his forehead. And Lancelot did not realize that he’d started to sigh softly, and whenever Chris’ touch was particularly intoxicating, a groan escaped his half-opened lips. Because Lancelot now only existed in these rapturous feelings Chris evoked in him.

After an eternity, Chris’ voice lapped at Lancelot’s ears, “Take a deep breath now.” Lancelot obeyed instinctively and in the next instant he was submerged in water. No outside sound or smell could reach him here and it was as if the world had stopped and there was just him. Him, and Chris’ hands that now reached out and helped him emerge.

Lancelot felt cleansed in a way he’d never felt before. He wanted to go down on his knees in supplication to Chris, lay the most valuable gifts at Chris’ feet – but Chris would not like the former and Lancelot had nothing to offer for the latter.

But Chris gazed at Lancelot with such a delighted expression that Lancelot got the feeling that his contentment was reward enough.

They left the stream in companionable silence – Lancelot had thought that he’d hate ever leaving but walking besides Chris was filling him with such calmness and he did it gladly.

Chris had brought a change of clothes for the both of them and they slipped out of their wet undergarments and into the dry clothes out of each other’s field of vision. Lancelot had never gotten into his clothes this fast. Clothes that were too short and out-washed and in colors Lancelot had not worn for years.

Chris – when had Chris returned? – started to giggle at the sight. Lancelot soaked in the unfamiliar sound and marveled at the carefreeness in Chris’ laugh. He’d never heard that particular tone in Chris’ voice before.

After a moment Lancelot joined in with low chuckles of his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes at the end because I couldn't wait for all of you to read this newest chapter, which I am so giddy about! Also, Merry Christmas :) because I won't upload another chapter before then!  
> Kudos and comments are treasured as always. And again a big "thank you" to rebelbravado for helping me on critical parts of this chapter with her feedback <3


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